Nightshade. Tom Henighan
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by itself on a small bed of flowers on the brilliant, empty greensward.
“A discreet monument this,” Clara said.
Sam nodded. They walked around the carved stone and he read the French inscription:
MONTCALM
VAINCU
BLESSÉ À MORT ICI
LE 13 SEPTEMBRE 1759
“My God!” Clara said. “Your namesake. So this is where he died. Montcalm vaincu — Montcalm defeated.”
Sam stared down at the shining stone, at the white irises growing up around it. He felt her probing glance, and pressed his lips together as she spoke to him.
“C’mon, Sam. Cheer up. It’s not the family curse. You’re not defeated yet.”
He shook his head and managed a smile.
“You know, Clara, I’ve heard a lot about this spot. But my dad always refused to bring us here. He talked about it sometimes in California. He wanted to revisit this city, and walk around the Plains, but he claimed it might bring us bad luck. He was very superstitious. So he hemmed and hawed and never got back here. I guess he realized too late that California brought us much worse luck than old Montcalm could ever have delivered. Even so, it took me all this time to get up the nerve up to come here.”
“And you feel okay? There’s no lightning going to strike you from the blue heaven?”
“No, I guess not. That’s what comes of arriving with my invincible black bitch, I guess.”
Clara laughed and punched him on the shoulder. “Shut your white face, and walk with me.”
They moved on across the wide expanse of green. After a long silence Sam said, “You know, with some women you remember only the bad times. With you, Clara, I only recall the fun we used to have.”
“That’s because even the bad times were fun — in a way.”
“Yeah.”
They followed the path that curved down toward the old city. The great, foursquare copper-roofed tower of the Château Frontenac dominated the horizon, the low ramparts and roof of the Citadel were visible on the far right. They couldn’t see the river, but Sam sensed its presence; a ribbon of light that curved around the promontory of Cap Diamant, opening up history and the past, giving shape to the plains and the city.
He couldn’t help thinking of his father, who had never returned to rediscover and reclaim all this, and of Teddy, who had missed it altogether.
They crossed Saint-Denis, a long street, just then surprisingly empty, its plain facades looking chaste in the sunshine, and walked down De Brébeuf to Sainte-Geneviève.
“Daniel and I found a good place,” Clara said. “Doesn’t look like we’ll get to enjoy it much, though.”
“You’ll be off the hook before you know it.”
Clara stopped and pointed to the dormered upper level of an elegant brick building some way down the street. “The apartment belongs to an architect. He’s going to be surprised to have the police around.”
They drifted along in a pleasant maze of churches, gardens, and distinguished old houses; the Château Frontenac loomed nearby. A few tourists hoofed past. Sam spotted a man lounging almost opposite the building they were approaching; the fellow was clearly going nowhere and trying hard to look inconspicuous — a plainclothesman.
The brick house was elegant, its front door of glass and oak; there were lamps of antique brass, and boxed pink roses. The place was divided into flats. As they thumped up the steep stairs a figure appeared above and a familiar voice greeted them. Paul Berthelet stood waiting, looking even more than usual, Sam thought, like François Truffaut, with his slender compact strength, his intelligent eyes, and dark good looks.
“So you two connected … very good. Hope you didn’t miss your breakfast, Sam,” Paul said.
“No, I found that excellent café you recommended. But Ginette isn’t going to be happy with me. She’s going to claim that, as usual, I’ve brought you nothing but trouble.”
“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” Paul said to him with a smile. “But let’s call it a challenge, rather than trouble. And you didn’t really bring it; you just appeared at the right moment.” To Clara he said, “But don’t you worry about anything. We’re just finishing up our little chat with Daniel.”
Clara, not reassured, shook her head. “It always begins with a little chat, doesn’t it?”
Sam followed Paul and Clara into the apartment. To the right was a kitchen, and other rooms lined a hallway, which opened at the far end into a broad sitting room with very high ceilings and picture windows, providing glimpses of a garden below, and rooftops and sky above.
Three men, one of whom was Daniel, were waiting at one end of the room. It was a large space, at that moment flooded with sunlight. It had been decorated with original paintings and sculptures, objets d’art, oriental carpets, and the like, but just then was littered, Sam noticed, with most of the miscellaneous apparatus of an artist at work. Two or three big tables had been pushed together and were covered with drop sheets, paint-smeared and torn, as well as paint tubes and brushes, knives and rags, bottles, bits of metal and wood, a couple of cameras, and a curious array of everyday objects — Coke bottles, the hubcaps of old cars, shop signs, headless naked manikins, hockey sticks, and unwieldy looking garden tools.
Daniel, in jeans and a white T-shirt, was sitting on what looked like a barstool in front of one of the tables, his thick body slouched forward, as if someone were leaning hard on his back. He moved gingerly, like a man who’s just started training. He eyed Sam nervously, rubbed his pockmarked cheeks, and mumbled a rather subdued “hello.”
Sam walked over and shook his hand.
The two other men, both wearing light summer suits, and standing on either side of Daniel, hardly moved. Each of them seemed locked up tight in his own space; in fact, there seemed to be no connection at all between the three of them, physically or otherwise.
“This is Lieutenant Dionne,” Paul explained, pointing to the older, slightly balding man on Sam’s left. “He filled me in on the case just an hour ago, after I heard from Clara. I’m the official guy now. And this is a visitor, an observer, from south of the border, Tim McCarthy of the FBI.”
At the reference to the FBI, Sam found himself suddenly on guard. He shook hands with both men. McCarthy squeezed his hand a little too hard and said: “Private detective? I thought they were only in the movies.”
“Sam’s an old friend,” Paul explained, “and a very good investigator.”
“And I’ve hired him,” Clara said, striding across the room and throwing open one of the big windows. As soon as he entered, Sam had noticed the heavy reek of pot.
Paul laughed and inhaled with a mock fervour. “Ah, fresh air! But it’s okay, Clara, this isn’t a drug bust. That smell doesn’t bother any of us, I’m sure.”
“It doesn’t bother me,” McCarthy said. “But we don’t think much of it back home.”
A low growl and indistinguishable monosyllable issued from Daniel, which Paul ignored. Instead, he attempted to joke with McCarthy. “You know, when you guys down there loosen up on the marijuana, the U.S. might have an artistic renaissance.”
The FBI man laughed. “We’d have a lot of other things, too.”
Sam didn’t like McCarthy’s laugh. It was a laugh that stayed in the throat and didn’t seem to touch the belly or the heart. In fact, as far as first impressions go, he didn’t like McCarthy one bit. A well-built Irishman with heavy eyebrows and cold, penetrating dark eyes. The kind of guy who, even in the best restaurant, would look at his food suspiciously, who would reply in monosyllables to harmless airplane chatter until his neighbour gave up